Salem's Lot

4

‘Mr Crockett,’ the familiar, accentless voice said.

‘Straker, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed.’

‘I was just thinkin’ about you. Maybe I’m psychic.’

‘How very amusing, Mr Crockett. I need a service, please.’

‘I thought you might.’

‘You will procure a truck, please. A big one. A rental truck, perhaps. Have it at the Portland docks tonight at seven sharp. Custom House Wharf. Two movers will be sufficient, I think.’

‘Okay.’ Larry drew a pad over by his right hand, and scrawled: H. Peters, R. Snow. Henry’s U-Haul. 6 at latest. He did not stop to consider how imperative it seemed to follow Straker’s orders to the letter.

‘There are a dozen boxes to be picked up. All save one go to the shop. The other is an extremely valuable sideboard-a Hepplewhite. Your movers will know it by its size. It is to be taken to the house. You understand?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have them put it down cellar. Your men can enter through the outside bulkhead below the kitchen windows. You understand?’

‘Yeah. Now, this sideboard-’

‘One other service, please. You will procure five stout Yale padlocks. You are familiar with the brand Yale?’

‘Everybody is. What-’

‘Your movers will lock the shop’s back door when they leave. At the house, they will leave the keys to all five locks on the basement table. When they leave the house, they will padlock the bulkhead door, the front and back doors, and the shed-garage. You understand?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Thank you, Mr Crockett. Follow all directions explicitly. Good-by.’

‘Now, wait just a minute-’

Dead line.